


The Horror and the Wild

by swordgirl



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Mild Gore, Multiple Orgasms, Murder, Sex Toys, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordgirl/pseuds/swordgirl
Summary: "I promise you I'll sing of every time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child."In the end, you thirty years together, if you count the bloody, violent decade where you dance around each other.(Tags will be added as the story updates.)
Relationships: August Walker/Original Character(s), August Walker/Reader, August Walker/You
Kudos: 16





	1. Remember Me, I Ask

You meet him on your way to kill a banker who had been funneling money to several terrorist cells in the Tri-State area. The goal was to kill him, wait for the terrorists to run out of funds and contact him, and arrest them all at once. The keyword there was  _ was _ , because the second you walked into the room, the smell of blood hit you, and you stared at the corpse of the unfortunate banker as if he might simply hop up again.

Something shifts in the closet, and you close the door behind you before approaching it. You didn’t bring a gun, thinking this was a simple job, so all you have is a poison dart hidden in a pen. Still, before you know who’s in the closet, it won’t hurt to play a scared civilian.

“I’m, uh, I’m armed,” you brandish your pen, letting your genuine anger shake your hand. Months, you had poured into the case, only for the coward in the closet to-

If you’re still capable of thinking, you would’ve taken it all back, but you don’t because all you can focus on is the pair of thick, beefy arms failing to hold several falling suits, with a sheepish expression on the most beautiful face you had ever seen.

“Holy fuck,” the pen almost drops from your hand, but you catch it at the last second.

“I don't want any trouble, ma’am,” he says warningly, but his hand is reaching back. He has a gun, so you’re going to have to distract him.

“I’m not a ma’am, and I don’t intend to give you trouble,” you tuck the pen back into your pocket with one hand and reach forward to play with his tie with the other. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

He hesitates for just a second before claiming your lips with an intensity that you nearly get lost in. You rub his shoulders, relishing the way the supple muscle doesn’t give under your hands, and then your hand darts down to take his gun and point it to his temple.

“Why don’t you tell me who you are, and why you decided to kill my target?” you back away and tell him.

He's probably not angry, since he doesn’t rip your head off, but you can’t tell what that expression on his face is, and that makes you tense, even while he’s got his hands up in surrender.

“You know he’s been financing  _ terrorists _ , right?” his voice drips with condescension, and you whap him across the face with the gun before you’re even aware you’ve moved. A red wheal rises from his skin, and you lower the gun, satisfied that your point’s been made

“Of course I did, which is why I came here with poison that would’ve sped up his heart until he died of a very natural cardiac arrest, not,” you gesture to the blood that’s definitely soaked into the carpet by now, “this.”

“Ah,” knowing glints in the eye that’s not threatening to swell shut, “he had information you needed.”

He stands up, clearly bracing for something, so you start to unload the gun just before he grabs it out of your hand and pulls the trigger. The indecipherable look returns to his face as he extends his other hand. “August Walker,” he says.

You take his hand with suspicion and introduce yourself, but he doesn’t do anything other than shake your hand in greeting. “So, what did  _ you  _ want from him?” you nod to the corpse again.

“What I already took,” Walker’s grin should be frightening, “but I can be persuaded to help you get the information you’re looking for.”

“And what’s the price?” you ask.

“You put your mouth on me again,” Walker says easily. He hesitates for a moment, then hands you the empty gun.

Well, you’re not stupid, on either count, so you take the gun and reload it before tucking it away. You wonder if your hands are going to smell like this, like him, gunpowder and blood, for the rest of your life. And then surprisingly lush, pillowy lips touch yours, and you’re not wondering anything at all.

His hands move down your body and press you flush against him, then change course to play with the top of your pants. You’re almost embarrassed at how strongly you react, turning red and making a sound that’s too close to a whine for your dignity’s sake. He smirks against your lips, and you bite them in retaliation. He holds you tighter as his mouth falls open, and he makes a sound like he’s been electrocuted. You lick over the bite to soothe him, and you didn’t know it was possible for muscle to feel indistinguishable from the wall. You throw one knee in between his legs just to gauge his responsiveness, and, oh yes, he’s  _ very _ responsive. His hands are digging bruises, if not grooves, into your skin, and you think about sitting on them tomorrow, how it would feel like the marks were being made all over again. Your mouth is open, and probably letting out embarrassing noises, but you don’t care, because his hands have finally wandered down to where you want them most.

Then his fingers withdraw, and you whine in earnest. You find your limbs, then, and make short work of his pants right as he slides his fingers all the way to the palm. You let out a scream, then, and grind down on those fingers like a starving man who laid eyes on a feast.

“You’re going to come on my cock, or not at all,” he growls into your ear, and then he slides in. It’s not unlike sitting on a live wire, every nerve in your body is jumping, and your heart threatens to beat out of your chest. He thrusts in, again, and again, pressing this feeling into your head, until it’s your turn to leave bruises, and you can barely hear Walker make the tiniest sounds of pleasure each time he gets a new one from your hands. You press on one such bruise, hard, and he grunts with the effort of holding back his orgasm so he can keep fucking into you.

You scream when you come, he doesn’t. The only sign you have that he’s come at all is a quick intake of breath when your hand slides right over a wet spot, as he zips up your pants.

“We have to go,” he says, paying no attention to the way you have to climb up him to stand upright. “The neighbors will have heard that.”

He’s infuriating, but even as you clench your (shaking) hands into fists, you know you’re never going to forget this random encounter in an otherwise unremarkable mission. As it turns out, you’re half right.


	2. I'm Lost (I'm Found) In You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How many times has Hunt's government abandoned him?

“I have the drive,” you say into your radio, shooting a mook in the face before he even realizes you've spotted him.

“Good, now I’m sending out the helicopter,” your temporary boss, Sloane, says. “It’ll land and leave in ten minutes.”

“Au-Agent Walker hasn't responded,” you remind her. “Permission to look for him?”

“Permission not granted. If he can’t get out, then he can’t get out. Your priority is that drive, do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am,” you lie before hanging up. Shit, you had ten minutes to find him before you left, or you were both going to be here when the buddies of all the people you two just killed show up.

He’s lying in a pool of blood when you get all the way down the stairs, and for a second, you're afraid that he’s dead. You feel for his pulse, which is too fast and too weak, but it’s there. You check your watch and find that there’s only five minutes until the helicopter's arrival. Well, nothing for it, then, you have to do this. You wrap his arms around your neck and lock his thighs in your hands before standing. He’s heavy, like you expected, but you’re full of adrenaline, and in the prime of your life, so you manage to keep him on your back as you walk across the room.

“What are you doing?” he slurs. So, not unconscious, just concussion.

“Carrying us to safety. Thank me later,” you say in between pants.

Walker says something that trails off as he nods off against your shoulder. You feel a  _ lot  _ of blood soak into your sleeves, and you pick up your pace. The helicopter lands a full ninety seconds late, and you’re thisclose to needing someone to pick  _ you _ up by the time it arrives. You manage to hold on just long enough to put Walker in a seat instead of dumping him onto the floor, and then you all but collapse into a seat.

“You carried me,” he murmurs with a shaky attempt at a smile. His head lolls toward you, and you can’t resist kissing him when he’s like this. “Did Sloane tell you to?”

“No,” you bite your lip, not sure how much to say. “She told me to leave you behind,” you confess. Seeing him like this, too badly hurt to hide just how much more deeply those words wounded him than the blow to the head, you need to take a second to get over how much the memory bothers you.

You’ll find out much, much later, it bothers Walker much, much more. But for now, you’re just happy to sit next to him, bumping your hand against his with the motion of the helicopter. You give your report to Sloane as soon as the plane lands and promise her that Walker’s report is coming, which is followed shortly by the tongue lashing of your life for not following her orders. By the time you’re finally free to go to August’s hospital room, it’s the next morning.

He’s much smaller on the bed than he should be, seeing as you’re sore as all hell from carrying him. Fuck, but August is a big, heavy man, and you’re a little surprised you were able to pick him up at all, never mind carry him all the way to the helicopter.

“Hey,” you fake a bright smile to give him as you sit down next to his bed. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I’ll feel better once I can sleep in my own room,” he gives you back a smile just as fake. “Sloane really told you to leave me behind?”

You wince. “I wouldn’t have done it,” you protest.

His broad hand covers two of yours. “I know,” he says solemnly. “I’m here because you disobeyed orders. I won’t forget that.”

“You should, I wouldn’t leave you,” you promise.

He chuckles a little at that. “Stronger people than you have tried,” he says, staring at a point past your shoulders. “So, when are you free to go home?”

“Now,” you say honestly, still trying to decipher what that look means. “I wanted to see you first, make sure you’re comfortable.”

He laughs. It’s a nasty laugh. “I haven’t been comfortable since,” he trails off. He doesn’t know either, and this breaks your heart.

“Well, scoot over,” you say, gesturing for him to make space on the bed for you.

“Seriously? Look, I know you’re all about breaking the rules now, but I’m pretty sure the doctor’s going to kick you out if we fuck here.”

“I’m not going to have sex with you, Aug-Walker,” you correct yourself. “But you lost a lot of blood on me, and I don’t think I could sleep without some proof you’re alive, so you’re going to have to deal with me being possessive.”

He scoots over easily after that, and when you lay your head on his chest, his hand comes up to cup the back of your head protectively, so you won’t fall. You drift off like this, until you’re both woken up the next morning by the doctor coming to tell Walker he’s free to go.

You leave together.


	3. To Never Leave You Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're both discovered, and afterward, you take care of each other in the only ways you can.

“Any luck?” Walker whispers.

You shake your hair out of your mouth before answering in the negative. You’d been going at the ropes for the last half hour, and you’re pretty sure all you've done is ruin your nails and rub your wrists raw. No, the ropes are a little bit looser now, but still not enough for you to slip a hand out without some serious flexibility or lubrication.

Okay, stop thinking about lubrication when Walker is jammed up right next to you.

As if on cue, the spies you were sent to tail open the door, one of them holding a wicked-looking hammer.

“Him first,” says Hammer Guy.

The other one grabs Walker by the hair and yanks him out. You spit at his face, and it lands on his ugly goatee.

Ugly Goatee makes a face and punches you in the face, so hard that your ears ring with the impact. Walker growls and kicks him in the calf. This gets him punched in the stomach by Hammer Guy, and after he curls up and falls down, the two go to town on him, punching and kicking for what you swear is an entire hour, until Ugly Goatee finally picks him up by the hair and drags him out of sight. You don’t realize you’re about to make a sound until you do, but he looks so  _ awful _ , with blood streaming out of his nose and mouth. When he notices that you’re looking at him, he winks at you. Fucker.

The next interminable amount of time is filled with the sounds of Ugly Goatee and Hammer Guy screaming questions, sickening crunches, and absolutely no sounds from Walker, except maybe one time when he spits on the floor. Then, the sound you'd been dreading this whole time.

“Go get the other one, maybe they’ll be more talkative.”

Fuck, you should’ve taken advantage of this time to look for a way out. Now, you’re going to get hammered, and not in the good way. You start struggling again.

“I don't think so,” Walker speaks for the first time in god knows how long. His voice is raspy, but steady, and it’s followed by shouting.

Shit, you’re not going to get another opportunity like this. You put your bound wrists against the door hinge and rub back and forth until-

Fucking  _ finally _ , you’re free, and you run toward the shouting to find one bloody man on the floor, one bloody man trying to get off the floor, and one bloody man raising a hammer. Well, that’s easy enough. You reach forward to grab the hammer right out of his hand, and hit him right in the face. He goes down with a sickening crunch, and you step over his body to check Walker for injuries. It doesn’t take very long. His nose is crooked, blood from a cut on his temple is covering half his face, there’s bruises on his neck (so, that’s why he was so raspy), his fingers are broken, and he limps away from you and toward the door.

“Should you be up and walking?” you ask as steadily as you can. Now that the adrenaline's gone, you feel like you’re about to fall over, and you're not even hurt.

“You tell me,” he says hoarsely, “you’re the one who got knocked on the head.” Fuck, now he’s holding his side, and you can’t even help him because the room is spinning.

You stand next to him and keep pace, shifting the hammer to your other hand so you can wrap a hand around his side. You walk this way, slowly, until you’re back in the bedroom with the closet. “Sit,” you say unnecessarily, because Walker’s stretched himself out on the bed while you look through the drawers and spitefully take out the most expensive-looking sheets to use as bandages. You hate this next part, setting each of his fingers back into place.

“You should call the agency, tell them to send a car. I can’t ride like this,” he says, sounding almost apologetic.

“Yeah, no shit,” you say, taking each of his fingers. He takes the pain you inflict with, well, as much stoicism as you expect, seeing as he got them without any complaints. “Now, take off your shirt, I’ve got to wrap your ribs,” you say, ripping the expensive sheet into bandage. You turn around and-

Holy fuck.

Theoretically, you knew that a person could have an eight-pack, but you’d never seen one before, and now that you have, you wish you could appreciate it more. But his chest honestly looks like somebody rubbed a blueberry pie all over him, and he’s openly bleeding in some places, so ogling will have to be done later.

Besides, “Tighter,” Walker doesn’t make a sound for the next thirty minutes as you carefully wrap the silk sheets around his torso. As soon as you’re finished, he sort of deflates onto the bed, and you can finally see the exhaustion on his face. You take more time than you should to go back to the kitchen and find the phone next to the refrigerator, but you did just kill a man, you can be excused for some exhaustion.

“I’m having car trouble on my Volvo, my back passenger side tire is flat, and the back driver’s side tire isn’t looking that good either, could you send out a mechanic?”

“We’ll have someone tow it in 13 hours. I recommend you change the flat and continue driving.”

God fucking dammit, so much could happen in 13 hours, and with Walker basically incapcitate, you’re the only one who can defend him. You slam the phone shut and storm back into the room. Walker gives you a sharp look, but quickly settles back to sleep, and really, you should too. In 13 hours, you’re going to have to explain to a room full of people that you'd gotten captured, and you’ll have to do it alone, seeing as Walker definitely needed to be in a hospital when that happens.

You lie down next to Walker, but sleep isn’t forthcoming, and you end up huffily readjusting your position every minute or so, until finally, Walker sighs and rubs his face.

“Can you please stop? I can’t sleep if you’re going to toss and turn all night.”

“Make me,” you say childishly, getting up to do something, even if you’re not sure what. Probably sleep on the couch or something.

Walker takes a deep breath, like he's bracing for something. “Lie down,” he says, and his voice comes out strong. It’s like he shouted in your ear, and you instinctively put your head on the pillow beneath you. “Good,” he strokes the arm closest to you with the back of his hand, which gets lower and lower, until he reaches the hem of your pants and yanks them down.

“Touch yourself,” he says, still projecting. It’s costing him, the sheen of sweat on his face tells you that. So you don’t argue, just bring your hand to your entrance and swirl your fingertips around the edges. “I said-” he takes a hitched breath, ruining the effect.

“I know, you said to touch myself, and I'm doing that,” you roll your eyes and start fingering yourself properly. It’s not long before you start feeling warmer, softer, more relaxed. Huh, clearly he had the right idea.

“Brat,” he chuckles, which ends in a bitten-off wheeze.

“You okay?” you ask, pausing in concern.

He takes a second to get himself back under control. “I didn’t say stop,” he says finally, voice restored.

You resume fingering yourself. It feels like you’re pulling old, stiff taffy, but you can feel your adrenaline crash exhaustion being replaced by the tiredness you always feel after you’ve had a good orgasm, so you keep going, until you’re making noises loud enough to wake the dead. Or maybe not, since neither of the corpses make a sound.

“Stop,” he says, and he winces as he shimmies down on the bed until he gets into a satisfactory position. “Sit on me,” he says.

“Um,” you gesture to his painted torso, “you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I said, ‘sit on me,’” he repeats.

Well, you’ve never said no to a free blowjob, so you shrug and get on with it. Walker’s eye twitches as he takes a deep breath, but you don’t get a chance to point this out before his tongue presses in a spot that makes you grind down helplessly. He puts his hands up to your hips, holding you in place with just his palms, and still thrusting his tongue until you swear you can’t feel your fingers either from how tightly you've fisted your hands.

His voice rumbles against your hole, and you have just enough control to ask, “What’d you say?”

“I said, ‘You can come,’” his voice is still strong, but there’s a faint tremor in it. It doesn’t make your orgasm any less intense, rather the opposite, and you try not to collapse right on his badly bruised chest when you come. It doesn’t work.

He actually makes a sound when your arm hits his ribs, so then you make a sound that’s probably even more embarrassing as you try to check his ribs through his bandages, something made more difficult by the fact that he’s got both your hands in just one of his.

“Are you alright?” he asks, and it’s so out of place that you can’t even answer. This must displease him, because he sighs before saying, “Just go to sleep.” So you lie down, carefully this time to avoid touching him. You both lie stiffly next to each other until he finally sighs and turns around, one arm under your shoulders and one arm over them.

“Um, August, what are you-”

“It’s better if we, um, know where we are,” he says. Is he, is he hiding his face?

“Sure,” you say, and you can’t deny that this feels a lot nicer than, than-

August wakes up coughing, and in your sleep-addled state, it takes you a few seconds to realize that there’s blood spraying out of his mouth as he does so.

“Shit, I’ll go get you some water,” you hurry to the kitchen sink and fill the first cuplike thing you find, hoping you head back before he dies. Which he’s apparently determined to do, since he’s moved himself into a sitting position, obviously wincing. You open your mouth to tell him to lie back down, but, well, it’s August Walker, he’s only ever made his own decisions.

“Thanks,” he says, and by the time he takes the bowl out of your hands, because you really need to expand your definition of, “cuplike things,” every line of pain and trace of exhaustion is gone from his face. Huh, that's an awfully fast recovery.

The door bursts open, and you whirl around, instinctively grabbing a weapon. It turns out to be a pillow, and the intruders turn out to be the agency, and you’re not sure which one makes you feel worse.

“I’ll see you in the office,” August winks at you and walks out, slowly, but without a limp. It only hits you as you watch him leave, he had spent all of last night without his guard up.


	4. Be Good, Be Good, Be Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're to keep this vibrator inside you until Walker is done cleaning his guns. How many times you come and how long you stay conscious is up to you, more or less.

“I hate this,” you say, toes already curling in anticipation.

“You say this every time,” he gives you an exaggeratedly hurt look. “I’m starting to develop a complex.”

You scoff, but you’re still nervous. You’ve never done this before, you don’t  _ let  _ people do this to you, but when you placed the bet on who could catch the target first, and what the prize would be if you won, you hadn’t anticipated anything but victory. Well, he had won fair and square, and now here you were, wrists and ankles tied, and placed in a humiliating squatting position in front of an armchair and a crackling fire.

At least his fingers feel nice. You have to keep yourself from moaning by biting your lip red as you feel yourself relax around him, enough for him to slip the vibrator inside you.

Then his fingers leave you entirely. He leaves, you hear running water, and he comes back with a bottle of rose and a single glass.

“Wine?” he asks as he pours.

“Yes,” you say instinctively, before immediately regretting it as he starts to tip the glass carefully in your mouth. You never say no to free alcohol, but you’ll die before you let anyone feed you again.

Still, the wine does what it’s supposed to, and relaxes you further. With relaxation comes the lack of inhibitions, and, well, you’ve never been a particularly obedient person. The instructions were not to come until he cleaned his entire arsenal, but honestly, between his fingers and the vibrator, it would only take a few careful wiggles to have it press down on the exact perfect spot.

You’re not sure what's more tempting, coming on the spot, or proving that you can last. Already, sweat is breaking across your skin, your hair is sticking to your shoulders, and your lip is nearly bloody from holding back noise. You want to come, more than you want more of the wine, more than you want to be let out of your ropes, more than, more than-

It’s not up to you, in the end. Your hips snap forward, rubbing harshly on the carpet, and only adding to the sensation as you come.

August’s eyes bore into you, and he drops the gun to walk slowly toward you. Fuck.

“I told you not to come,” his voice has no inflection, you have no idea where to go from here.

“And since when have I ever done what you tell me?” you snark, relishing the way he clenches his jaw in anger. You know he has total control over his body, and if he didn’t want you to see it, you wouldn’t.

“You should start,” he crosses his arms. “It would make this easier for both of us.”

You snort, “I’ve never made anything easier, and you know it.”

He takes his belt off and sits down to push your legs together, so you feel the vibrator slip further inside you, almost at the perfect spot to make you come again. He wraps his belt around your thighs and secures them together so that you’re forced to sit on your calves, or fall over. You hope to remain sitting.

He stands back up, and for a few moments, he just stares at you. You deliberately thrust your hips forward to show your range of movement, although this pushes the vibe into a spot that makes your eyes flutter shut for just a second. “Enough,” he says, reaching into his pocket.

The vibrator intensifies inside you, and you let out your first involuntary sound as you come a second time. You nearly let out another one when you come back into your body, and feel the vibrator still knocking against your oversensitive walls. August smirks from where he’s sitting back down on his chair, cleaning what looks like a mountain of guns. For the first time all night, you feel a bit of apprehension. You had come here for a night of fun, but you’re not actually sure how long you can last.

Two more times, it turns out, and then you tip sideways, no longer able to hold yourself up. The impact jars your shoulder, pulling a weak sob out of you, and you can only turn your face to the carpet to keep him from seeing your tears. The fucking vibrator is still going, although it hasn’t increased in intensity since the first time, and you hope he finishes cleaning before you lose feeling in your arms as well as your legs.

A smirk appears on his face when you give up trying to hide your sobs. Your fifth orgasm makes your legs shake so hard that the belt creaks, and you spare a moment of gratitude to Walker for using silk rope on your wrists instead of regular like you’d asked. Still, when you’re aware that you're drooling, you wipe it on the carpet beneath you. This was his idea, so he can do the cleanup. It’s the last coherent thought you have for a while, because the vibrator seems to have drilled its way into your lungs, and you’re only semi-conscious when you come a seventh time.

And then the vibrator finally,  _ finally  _ clicks off. Walker’s hands are careful when he unties you and unhooks his belt. You’re a little ashamed of your whimper when his finger brushes against your entrance.

“I need to take the vibrator out,” he says quietly, and he’s not gentle, but you doubt any touch wouldn’t grate on your overstimulated nerves right now.

You come one last time, right on the carpet, and this time you let yourself fall on Walker's shoulder. He doesn’t complain about the smear of snot you’re probably leaving on his suit, just picks you up and carries you somewhere before laying you down on-

Oh, so maybe this was why you’d heard running water.

The bath smells like lavender, so you drift until you feel Walker’s broad, callused hands rubbing some sort of oil on your skin. Is that chamomile?

“I’m just trying to give you a massage,” he says, and you can hear the hateful smirk in his voice.

“You do this for everyone you almost kill?” you say with as much poison as you can muster. It’s not much, because you’re slurring your words, and your head keeps falling against his chest.

Walker scoffs. “You were never in danger of dying, not from that.” You open your mouth to retort, but he’s not finished. “You only had that vibrator at low intensities for a little over four hours. Even twice as long on its highest setting, you could still stand, if you  _ really  _ wanted to.”

It takes a few minutes for it to sink in, how he would know this.


End file.
